


Wayfaring Strangers

by Kalael



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you mind if I sit down?”  He asks, and Jack shakes his head.  Their hands brush as Jack reaches for the glass while the man pulls his own hand away.  It’s very intentional contact and as Jack looks up through his eyelashes he can see the hint of a smirk on that thin, sharp mouth.</p><p>He wonders if he will cut himself on the edges of those lips and the thought sends a shiver down his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wayfaring Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> ooooold thing I started writing for suchcolors/claudiusing back in like fucking october and never finished because I'm fucking trash.

Jack missed London architecture. The mix of old and new, the long facades of the shops along the streets, the busy tube stations with their almost maze-like platforms. He remembers Baker Street with tiles of Sherlock Holmes’s face in the station and the bustling streets of Covent Garden, especially in November and December when the Christmas decorations go up and the holiday events are being planned. It’s March now so there won’t be any fairy lights on the trees, but as he sits on a plane at the Vilnius International Airport it’s all he can think about. It’s lucky that his job has him travelling so often, because he would be flat broke in Lithuania otherwise. 

The convenience of having a job that pays travel expenses is something that Jack is constantly thankful for, and on occasion he even thanks the various deities that he doesn’t believe in. There is no one else to be grateful to, aside from the higher powers that sign his paychecks. Most of the people around him are not constant, and he has not seen a familiar face in weeks. This doesn’t bother him as he stares out the window of the plane, waiting impatiently for takeoff. The pilot drones over the speaker, heavily accented and boring Jack to tears, and then the plane is finally moving. Jack continues to look out the window, his fingers clutching the armrests. The woman next to him makes a soft, frightened sound as the plane lifts off the runway.

It’s Jack’s favorite part of traveling. Take off is full of tense energy, as though there is static electricity in the air and it makes the hairs on his arms rise up. There is a brief moment of weightlessness as the plane drops a little, adjusting to the wind as it gains altitude, and Jack revels in the turbulence. Eventually his ears stop popping from the pressure changes, and Jack settles back into his seat as the plane becomes more stable. The flight attendants come through, offering pretzels and cookies. Jack denies everything but a glass of water and when they are allowed to pull out their electronics he tugs his laptop out of his briefcase. With his cup of water balanced precariously at the edge of the tray beside his laptop, Jack begins to work on the presentation that he has to give in less than seven hours. He’d finished most of it the night before, pleasantly buzzed and in a productive mood. He isn’t exactly happy to work on it now, but the distraction is enough to keep him occupied for the next two and a half hours in flight.

Heathrow is as busy as he remembers it. Jack claims his suitcase before heading down to the tube station beneath the airport, where he waits behind a couple of Canadian tourists to get his travel card. Eventually he has to offer his help when they can’t figure out that the machine won’t take cards, and they all board the Piccadilly line together. He nearly falls asleep before they reach his stop, and Jack struggles with his suitcase and nearly trips off the platform as he exits the train. With a brief glance at his pocket map, he remembers the rest of the directions and rolls his heavy suitcase along.

The Hotel Ibis in Greenwich is typical travellers’ accommodation, nothing special about it except for the odd bathroom that looks like it was manufactured by a boating company. Jack doesn’t spend much time pondering the fiberglass door before he jumps into the shower to wash off the stale feeling of air travel. As much as he loves flying, the filtered air always tastes stagnant after a while. The water is lukewarm and he nearly dozes off under the spray. It’s only the sound of his phone going off that makes him hurry out of the bathroom, conditioner still in his hair as he scrambles to pick up his cellphone.

“Jack Frost here.” He greets, running his free hand through his hair and grimacing as his fingers are slicked with the conditioner. He hits a knot and accidentally pulls out a few white strands, biting his lip to hold back a pained whine. “Yes, I’ve just checked into the hotel. Presentation’s done so don’t worry about that either, and as far as I know the meeting time hasn’t changed. Did you want anything, or did you just call to nag me?”

On the other end of the line Aster curses very violently and creatively before hanging up on him. Jack snorts with laughter before tossing the phone onto the bed, suddenly aware that he’d dripped water all over the hotel room in his rush to take the call. Frowning at the damp floor, he hurries back to the bathroom to finish his shower. The towels are decently fluffy and he wraps himself in one to prevent dripping again, but he’s way too lazy to get dressed. Instead he unpacks his clothes and the rest of his toiletries, glancing at the clock from time to time to make sure that he’s still free to do as he likes.

Jack takes his time getting acquainted with the room as he puts things away. It’s small, like every London hotel he’s stayed in, but the bed feels like heaven and he has to force himself back into the bathroom because he can’t afford to sleep now. The next hour passes quickly and all too soon Jack finds himself packing his briefcase up for the business meeting, about fifteen minutes away if he manages to find the right bus. He decides not to risk it and has the hotel clerk call a cab service.

“Worst part of the job.” Jack sighs as the cab pulls up to the office building. He doesn’t mind putting together the presentations, but giving them is a whole new monster. He’s damn good at what he does, the company wouldn’t send him all over the world like this if he weren’t one of their most competent consultants, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that he likes it.

Either way, the meeting goes incredibly well and he ends up at some swank hotel across the river for cocktails with the client, sipping his way through a glass of expensive gin that he isn’t paying for. He’d rather be drinking plain old coke and rum, but this isn’t the sort of place for that, so he suffers in silence while the client babbles on about something related to the presentation. Jack just nods, lifting his glass to his lips as his eyes wander around the bar. There aren’t many people here, and most of them are in pairs. He lets his mind drift off as he indulges in people-watching.

There’s a woman in a well-tailored suit sitting with another woman in a red dress and they are definitely in a romantic relationship if the hands they have on each other’s thighs are any indication. They leave together and Jack watches from the corner of his eye as their hands brush while they walk. There’s a chubby man in an ill fitting sports jack next to an older woman and they seem companionable enough, though the longer Jack watches them the more bored he becomes. It’s hard to see the others in the dim lighting and most of them are seated at booths, heads down and talking too quietly to hear. He envies them as he turns his attention back to his client, a cheerful rotund man who insists on buying Jack another drink.

It’s not unusual to meet someone at a hotel bar, although it is cliche and almost laughable. Most of the people Jack talks to in these situations are just as displaced as he is, travellers on business ventures trying to find themselves through the bottom of a wine glass. Sometimes he goes back to their rooms, sometimes he leaves alone, but by the end of the night there’s always a phone number in his back pocket. He’s never bothered to contact any of them, knowing fully well that he will never see them again. Even if the number belongs to a local, Jack is never certain when he’ll be returning to a place. As it stands, London is the only city that he has to return to every few months due to the high profile clients.

He’s never gone home with the same person twice, the times when he has stayed at their place for a full weekend notwithstanding. Once he leaves he’s gone for good and he’s not all that sorry to say goodbye.

Jack finishes his wine and smiles at his client although his gaze is focused somewhere over his left shoulder. The man eyeing him from across the bar looks like a very tempting prospect. Jack had noticed him when they first came in, but he had been with someone else at the time. Now that man is alone, drinking an amber colored alcohol with ice that Jack imagines is scotch on the rocks. He plays with a scenario in his head, the way that man’s tongue would slide against his, cold from the ice and bitter from the alcohol. Maybe it’s only his first drink but it’s more likely his second or third, and he doesn’t look like a lightweight but Jack likes to think he might be a little unsteady on his feet as he pulls Jack into the elevator. It’s all in his head, of course, but he wouldn’t mind seeing it pan out in reality.

“…nk you, Jack, for all your work today. Would you like me to call a cab for you?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. My hotel isn’t far.” Jack lies, meeting his client’s eyes and smiling brightly. They say their goodbyes and then Jack is alone at the booth, playing with his empty glass as he considers his next move. The man he’d been watching looks the sort that would take charge in a situation like this, but he’d also appeared to be in his forties and Jack knows that his own baby face has thrown potential lovers off before.

He doesn’t have to worry when a glass is set in front of him. Scotch on the rocks, Jack notes with some amusement, and he looks up into the face of the man that had been staring at him before.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” He asks, and Jack shakes his head. Their hands brush as Jack reaches for the glass while the man pulls his own hand away. It’s very intentional contact and as Jack looks up through his eyelashes he can see the hint of a smirk on that thin, sharp mouth.

He wonders if he will cut himself on the edges of those lips and the thought sends a shiver down his spine.

“Not at all, please do.” Jack gestures to other side of the booth and the man slides in. He has impossibly long legs but somehow he manages to cross them under the table. Jack knows that due to the feeling of a hard leather sole brushing across his shin, just under his knee. There’s no way it was an accident.

"You look rather young for a businessman." Jack hides a smile by lifting the glass of scotch to his lips and drinking. He watches grey eyes flick to his lips before they meet his gaze again.

"Not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m Jack Frost, by the way, and please don’t spew any jokes about the name. Believe me when I say I’ve heard them all." That earns a short bark of laughter. Jack revels in the harsh sound, knowing it’s not a fake tittering giggle.

"I don’t believe I have any right to mock your name when mine is Pitch Black." That nearly causes Jack to spill his drink, and he tries not to laugh.

"Oh, my god. Pitch? Seriously?" He asks, and Pitch gives him a smile that’s more like a smirk.

"Short for Pitchiner." He explains. Jack nods and drinks his scotch, trying to regain his composure.

"Well that’s better, I suppose. Pitchiner." Jack lets the name roll of his tongue in a way he knows is suggestive, and he’s not disappointed when Pitch’s eyelids go hooded. If his pupils weren’t ready blown wide in the dim light of the bar, Jack is certain he would have seen Pitch’s eyes darken.

He’s a bit disappointed. Watching the subtle changes in someone’s face when he knows he has their interest has always been one of his favorite parts. The chase is part of the game and chatting up potential partners is a form of foreplay that Jack has nearly perfected. They sit in silence for a short while, sipping at their drinks. Jack wishes he could feel the buzz, but years of drinking have ensured a high tolerance.

“It’s getting late.” He says. Pitch nods while eyeing him over the rim of his glass. “Got anywhere to be?”

“I’ve a room here.” Pitch admits. “I think I should retire for the evening. It was lovely meeting you, Jack.” They shake hands, Jack too stunned to say a word, and then Pitch is gone.

“Are you kidding me?” Jack mutters under his breath, still in shock. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” There is no way Pitch would just buy him a drink and then leave. They were practically eye fucking by the end of it, Jack’s pretty sure he was getting the right sort of vibes. Holy shit, there is no way he’s losing his touch. 

With a frustrated noise Jack looks away from the doorway that Pitch had left through, and from the corner of his eye he catches something on the table. He looks down, and next to Pitch’s glass there is a small white envelope. Jack slides it over and picks it up. The number 320 is written on the outside, and when Jack opens the envelope he finds a plain white keycard.

Jack smiles, finishes his drink, and heads for the elevator.


End file.
